


what is wanted, what is found

by Lizlow



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:31:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizlow/pseuds/Lizlow
Summary: “Yasmine.”His voice tickles her ears, despite the probable distance between them. This leads to no hesitation in her steps as she turns to where shebelieveshe is, only for her fingers to brush against nothing but an empty trace.





	what is wanted, what is found

**Author's Note:**

> for [@chrysaorae](https://twitter.com/chrysaorae) on twitter! 
> 
> it was a pleasure to write this! thank you again!

The peace is darling, but it is draining. Her footsteps are loud against the soft grass, and even more so against the garden paths. This opportunity cannot escape her though, she’s long since decided. _Stay_ , just a little longer, and put her heart to… to _what_ exactly?

Yasmine doesn’t want the answer to be ripped from her, so she pushes it down.

In her hands is a blindfold. On her mind is a game, a simple one. Follow the other’s voice and find each other. The explanation should be short enough that his fleeting presence should be caught.

She hopes so, _maybe_ … at the very least.

“Put this on, Alair.”

She states clearly, “When you do, I’ll call out for you, and you have to find me.”

Now, Alair is a _god_ , one that takes what he _wants_ , but despite being so _wanted_ , she has fought. She has _shown_ that she is so much more than some mindless lamb, and it makes her all the more interesting. And he, he hasn’t any interest in these _human_ games but, without reason that can be fully grasped, he finds himself giving in to her whims.

“If you take it off,” Yasmine presses her warning, “then you lose.”

He takes the blindfold from her, putting it on and tying it with a yawn. There is no absence of knowledge of just how _basic_ and _easy_ this game might be, and his will to even stall out his victory doesn’t exist.

But his agreement makes her happy.

Off she scurries then, her voice – _yes_ , that voice, that fills the caverns and flows over the rivers until it streams and pools into the landing lake – he’d not fail to recognize it.

“Alair!”

He steps, with confidence that is nothing but crystalline.

In no time, he has caught up to her, but he waits, waits for his name to again leave her lips before he places his hand down.

She tries to hold back repeating it. He already knows, _he already knows_ , so to speak would be to allow him to be gifted a satisfaction akin to no other. Yet, with him before her, she finds herself slipping, and it comes, as a mere whisper, but it is oh so clear to his powerful ears. “Al… air…”

He reaches out, touching her cheek, his expression a confident, _knowing_ smirk. “Caught you. Hardly a challenge, might I add.”

“Might you tell _why_?” She cannot help this.

“Demanding, are you not? But,” he removes the blindfold, so that he might see the very _full_ pout she’s giving him, “I will not lose what is _mine_.”

“Don’t-” she starts, but she stops herself, and she doesn’t know why. So, instead, she exhales through her nose, and takes the blindfold back, stepping away and tying it the best she can. Don’t let him try to fix it, _you do not need that_. “Now, it’s _my_ turn to find you.”

“Hmm…” Amused, gives nothing more but that, examining as she stands in wait, before he walks off.

It is a choice, deliberate, to stand under one of her precious trees. His hand comes to rest on it, drumming against it, steadily. And as she starts her blinded search, she can _feel_ it, he senses, and it only amplifies his next action.

The ground beneath her feet, her arms before her, scanning the air in lieu of her sight.

_“Yasmine_ ,” he whispers, and her names falls from his mouth so naturally.

Turning, she thinks, _where did that come from_? Immediately, she tries to close the window to her soul, for she feels… she feels he can peer in, place his head to the door and hear her very curiosities.

Alair pauses, watching these movements of hers.

“ _Yasmine_.”

His voice tickles her ears, despite the probable distance between them. This leads to no hesitation in her steps as she turns to where she _believes_ he is, only for her fingers to brush against nothing but an empty trace.

“ _Yasmine_.” There it is again. And she searches, following the rules. _Don’t give up_ , one might think, but she doesn’t have to remind herself. Guide her, she asks the garden walls that surround her. His presence is not one to miss, so why, _why?_

The way he says her name, how it drips and drops right onto her heart, is that…

Her thoughts are disrupted, by her focus reawakening, and by the _silence_ , not noise, that comes. Where is it? His voice, again, she has to hear it again, she hasn’t found him yet, _Alair…_

Several moments must have passed, though time isn’t present when each second stretches. She wonders if he really… just got _that_ bored.

It’s fine, her heart searches itself as she repeats it, and, as though she _must_ witness the distress in the grass where he vanished, she slowly removes the cover from her eyes, blinking to let the rays come back to her. _Thump._

The blindfold escapes her grasp, the breeze imprisoning it. She follows its trail with her gaze, _thump_ , watching as it dances with light grace, before it is taken – _captured_ – by a figure ever familiar to her.

“You have lost your own little game,” Alair speaks, and suddenly, he is before her, his eyes seeing right through, “by a simple break of your own rules.”

“You stopped calling,” she lets out, managing to stand as firmly as possible, without buckling under the intensity of his own fire. His own expression lacks change, but does well to match her.  

And yet, the clouds still stay part.

“I did not leave.”

Closer. He’s coming closer.

“Alair…”

She speaks his name, hints of her bite still pulsing, but she finds herself unable to say _anything else_ , anything but _his_ name. Still, it is _her_ voice that lingers, as though the trees, the garden, every inch out here in the world, just for them, echoes it.

“ _Yasmine_ ,” his pride hits and stalls upon each syllable, “I have won, and you,” his arms are around her now, “have lost.” She’s so _small_ , but the strings she has tugged on, have spelled tightly.

She wants him to stay. He wants her happy. He is here, spending this time, which is so little for him and so _much_ for her. Is she pleased? She _must_ be, for there is no storm, even as her heart beats. And he can feel it. _Hear it_. Her inner voice.

Her heartbeat.

Closer. There he goes again. More. Would others quiver at this attention?

“..!”

There is no storm, even as her heart beats. There is no cold, no grey.

Her wish. Her game. His victory. His turn.

_His._

Let this image be put. Don’t allow it to be an illusion, granted, by the dear woods knowing her deepest desires.

Alair, he _wants_ her to look, so her eyes shut, and yet still he is there, warm. _Belong…_ To a place, or to... _who?_ A feeling comes up, an approach. More. _More._ He’s still there, so this reminds her. So this tells her. And believe in it she does.

She’s accepted her loss it seems, so he leans into his prize. It makes it more interesting, to have a stake that was never even mentioned, a steal, for the leaves and petals and purely fascinating ways her tones have twisted _him_.

There they are, her fingers, pressing against him.

Will he _leave_ her for now then? _Leave_ , the… _him_ who is _hers_?

Chance may it be, that the answer has come to lay within what he _presents_ her with next, something golden and coveted: a kiss.


End file.
